


When They Come To Murder Me

by junkster



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Violence, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkster/pseuds/junkster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wandering around alone backstage at a venue isn't the place for a Roger to be. (Please note that there is no actual rape in this fic, though there are mentions of it and some elements of sexual violence).</p>
            </blockquote>





	When They Come To Murder Me

**Author's Note:**

> I always hurt the ones I love - sorry Rog! Another hurt/comfort fest.

It’s madness in the dressing room, so many people with backstage passes and groupies and tech staff, all drinking and laughing and flirting and shrieking and offering up their not-so-hard-earned cocaine to anyone with a handy cocktail straw.

Roger’s head is pounding. From the show, from the clamour, from the bright lights and the heat. As he declines yet another line, shoved in front of him by a girl who looks even younger than he is, he slips out of the door and down the corridor, shoving his hands into his pockets as he just breathes, in and out. He likes a party - he _does_ \- but sometimes it’s too much. Sometimes what he really wants is to tell them all to fuck right off and let him get some peace and quiet, or catch up on some sleep, or just talk to his friends, but that’s not the way he’s supposed to feel so he does his best to hide it, when he has to.

As the sounds of the party get quieter and quieter behind him, he looks around him at the inner workings of the venue, maze-like, bleak, all grey block walls and cement floors, the odd humming strip-light on the ceiling highlighting a fire escape route or a stairwell. There are puddles everywhere, leaks in the ceiling that look like they’ve been going for months. A few strategic buckets are catching the worst ones, but mostly the water’s just pooling on the floor here and there.

It takes a good few minutes to actually find a window that opens, and he pushes it outwards with a long, inward breath of relief, the cold autumn air drifting in with the scent of leaves and rain. He leans an arm against the wall and presses his forehead to the back of his wrist, closing his eyes and letting the breeze soothe the repetitive thud of his pulse inside his skull. He tugs at the collar of his white shirt - he hasn’t managed to find a moment to shower or get changed yet, and he feels damp and hot.

He cracks open his eyes when footsteps sound nearby, assuming it’ll be his high-as-a-kite groupie or a stage technician or something, but there’s no one in front of him, the way he came. Pushing away from the wall, he turns his head just as a pair of hands grab the front of his shirt and yank him forwards, pulling him off balance. He stumbles, cursing, trying to work out what the hell’s going on as he comes face to face with a broad chest in a black motorhead t-shirt. He looks up, and up, into a pair of pale blue eyes accompanied by a malicious smirk. He just has time to realise that there are three of them surrounding him before he’s turned around and shoved face-first into the wall, and he twists his head to the side just in time as his face hits the concrete, a hand on the back of his head grinding his cheekbone against the rough surface. He presses his palms flat against the breeze blocks and tries to push backwards, but the hands holding him in place are too strong. He’s exhausted and hot, and his adrenaline from the show has been flooding out of him like someone’s opened the sluice gate. He feels weak, helpless.

“Fuck, he’s small, isn’t he?” the one trying to crush his head remarks - the leader of the little group, apparently, mr. motorhead. “I thought he’d be taller.”

As if he’s never heard that one before. Lashing out behind him with the heel of his boot, he asks, teeth gritted: “What the fuck do you want?”

“We want _you_ ,” another voice says, and this guy sidles into his eyeline. He’s not much taller than him, but he looks like he’d beat the crap out of you and enjoy it too, tattoos snaking up his ridiculously chunky biceps. “Can’t you tell by the way we’re treating you, sweet thing?”

 _Shit_.

Shit shit shit.

They’ve been waiting for him. Or maybe not him, maybe just any of them, which seems more likely. After all, why would they choose him when they could have one of the others? But all he can be glad of is that it’s not one of them; not Nick, or John, or Andy or Simon. He hopes they’re miles away. Well, if he’s honest then for a long, selfish moment he wishes they were here to save his arse, but he pushes the thought away. It’s better that they’re safe, and not here. Especially that they’re not here to see this.

To see them assault him. Because that’s what they’re going to do, there’s no doubt in his mind. They’re going to fuck him up, or fuck him over, or just plain fuck him. And there’s nothing he can do.

“Shame we managed to get the least pretty one of the bunch, eh?” The leader chuckles, bunching his fingers in Roger’s hair and tugging painfully, turning him around.

“Fuck you,” Roger retorts with a rough, angry laugh. “I bet I’m prettier than your wife.”

“Runt,” motorhead grunts, smacking the back of his hand across Roger’s cheek and splitting the skin with his wedding ring. “You’ll be even uglier after this, believe me.”

Working his jaw back into place with a crack, Roger waits a second for the blood to build up in his mouth before spitting it at the guy’s face, smirking when he gets a direct hit.

“Fuck!” the little one exclaims, taking a step back. “Mate, he’s probably got aids, get it off! They’ve probably all got it, you know what they’re like.”

And for a moment, in the resulting chorus of agreement as the leader tries to wipe his face clean, Roger’s brief spark of hope that they might decide to leave him alone after all is accompanied by his insides well and truly freezing over, because if they don’t then they might not only be about to screw him but they might give him something as well. And that spark of hope is extinguished when the boss pulls a strip of condoms out of his back pocket and dangles them in front of his face with a knowing smirk.

A hand grips one of his wrists and yanks his arm up and back so sharply he can’t even yelp; can’t do anything but go with the pressure that’s forcing him down onto his knees, down into one of those ice-cold puddles of water. He shivers at the initial contact, as it soaks into the denim stretched over his kneecaps, and tries desperately to ignore the fact that his eyes are now at crotch-level, and the leader is standing in front of him, burying a hand in his hair to pull his head up.

“You know, you look less like a kid when you’re covered in blood,” he remarks casually, and then he backhands him across the mouth and Roger feels his lower lip split, a trail of warmth trickling down his chin.

He’s about to spit another gobful at the guy’s shoes when a noise nearby - a hollow clank of metal, like a door closing - startles them all. They all turn to glance down the corridor and the hand pinning Roger’s arm up and back in that painful grip lets go.

And he runs.

He _runs_. He takes off like a bullet out of a gun, the element of surprise giving him a head-start. The corridor is long, endless and grey and when he turns the corner he finds the next one identical, and the echoing sound of his feet pounding the concrete is disorientating, his heart hammering in his ears, his head still throbbing. If he can just find some sign of life, someone to help him, god, he just wants to get away...

There’s a scrape of trainers against the floor just behind him and his heart jumps into his throat, and then he’s going down, one of them leaping onto his back like a lion taking down its prey. The collision of his body with the concrete is almost enough to knock him out, pain bursting along his left arm, in his chest, one of his ankles. He only manages to save his face at the last millisecond, tucking his arm under his jaw to prevent what could’ve been the majority of his teeth embedding themselves in his tongue.

The weight on his back is almost unbearable paired with the fire in his ribs, and he knows it’s all over. The despair is crushing. He can’t make another run like that, and they’re not going to let him go now, they’re going to want some payback. He tries to buck them off, the panicky feeling of fight or flight like a bird flapping inside his chest, but all he manages to do is make that pain even worse, bad enough that a raw sound of agony escapes him.

When they haul him upright he falls forwards against one of them, a grey curtain coming down over his vision as his ankle refuses to bear his weight and every single intake of breath stabs like a knife in his chest.

“Looks like he wants you now, mate!” the little one crows, laughing, but Roger can’t bring himself to care. This body, whoever it is, is propping him up, and if he tries to move away he’ll fall again, and he’s not sure how many more times he can take that. Aside from that is the terrifying, horrific fear of what they could do to him if he blacked out. Maybe it would be better that way, not remembering anything but the darkness, but he can’t start thinking like that. If there’s even the tiniest chance of getting away then he still has to take it.

The silent one of the three pulls one of those long black plastic ties out of his pocket and Roger tries to back away, the very sight of it lighting a fire of fear in his stomach. Hard hands grab his arms and pull them together in front of him, and the tie is looped around his wrists and pulled tight; tight enough to cut into his skin. He’s pushed face-first up against the wall again and one of them grabs his hair, forcing his head down until he’s leaning forwards, off balance, and a foot kicks between his ankles in an attempt to make him spread his legs.

And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, a flick knife appears, and he almost throws up. The shock of the glinting blade aiming for his gut is enough to turn his blood to ice water.

“Don’t struggle,” the leader says, and it’s entirely sinister now, no hint of amusement. Roger has no doubt that the knife will end up in his belly if he tries anything else.

He closes his eyes when a hand reaches around for the top button of his jeans and starts sliding them open one by one, pressing his forehead to the rough cement wall and trying not to be sick.

“This’ll teach ‘em not to fuck another bloke’s wife,” motorhead says to his friends, his words accompanied by the sound of a zipper drawing down. “Maybe it wasn’t you, runty, maybe it was, but you’ll do as a message whatever. Probably wasn’t you, actually, she’s got more taste than that. Still.”

Roger blinks, staring along the long, grey expanse of wall. That’s what this is about?

What the fuck?

“Did you ever stop to think she might be lying?” he asks, gasping as the point of the knife presses into his skin.

“You saying my girl’s a liar?” the leader asks, voice ominously quiet.

“I’m saying maybe she was trying to make a point...” God, he can’t resist. “That you’re an ugly neanderthal who can’t satisfy her in bed...”

His temple smacks against the wall and stars flash in front of his eyes, and for a moment he thinks he hears wonderfully familiar voices, and then he swallows hard against the nausea, because he must be concussed, must be hearing things, and any second that blade’s going to slide between his bottom two ribs and it’ll all be over.

What a waste, to die at the hands of three thugs in a damp, cold corridor, alone.

Bastards.

  * * * * * * * * 

John isn’t sure why Nick’s dragging him away from the dressing room instead of further into it, which seems like the only logical course of action, but he’s going with it - partly because Nick has a really, really tight grip on his wrist and partly because he assumes Nick must know something he doesn’t; that there’s an even better party going on nearby or something.

So he goes with it, eventually convincing Nick he can let go of him now, looking down at him in interest as they walk side by side down the corridor.

“Where’re we going?” he asks, rubbing his wrist absently and sidestepping a puddle of water - at least, he hopes it’s just water.

“To find Rog,” Nick tells him firmly, eyes set on the end of the corridor with a frowning determination. “When he left earlier he looked...weird. Overwhelmed or something. Just...I don’t know.”

John blinks at him. “Oh. Okay. Did you need me for this?”

One of Nick’s hands darts out to poke him in the ribs. “Yes. Don’t argue. You can go back in a minute, okay?”

“Okay,” John says, appeased, and points out: “He might not want to see us, anyway.”

“No,” Nick agrees. “He might not, but we should -”

His words cut out and he stops walking, holding out a hand to halt John too. In their sudden silence they hear it - a thump, followed by some unfamiliar, raucous laughter.

They look at each other.

Could be one of the stage hands hauling some equipment.

Could be some groupies have found some fun.

Could be...

John starts striding off for the end of the corridor, long legs taking him there in no time at all, Nick having to jog every few steps to keep up with him. And there, as they turn the corner, is their worst-case scenario. In the heat of the moment they don’t take in every tiny detail, but they see Roger, they see blood, and they see a man who they’ve never clapped eyes on before groping him through his jeans.

“Hey!” John bellows, his voice cracking because he’s scared, but they’re off again, running, the twenty metres or so like an endless barrier between them, but either these men haven’t noticed there’s only two of them or they’re just scared into action by the thrill of being caught, because they turn and run as well, something dropping from the tallest’s pockets as he goes. And they’re laughing, which is what makes it all even worse. They’re laughing, and Roger’s dropping to the floor like a stone.

 

Roger has no idea what’s going on, but the hands are gone and the knife is gone and it sounds like he’s running again, that thud thud thud of boots on cement, but he’s pretty sure he’s just standing there, waiting for someone to ruin his life.

He tries to move and his ankle gives out instantly and he crumples to the ground, his shoulder taking the impact this time, ending up in a heap on his side with his arms still tied in front of him.

As he blinks he becomes aware of a boot in in his eye-line. Sparkly. Silver. And a voice that’s like morphine for the pain wracking through him - soft, familiar, terrified.

“Oh god, oh _god_ ,” it’s chanting, panicked. It sounds like John, which doesn’t fit with the sparkly shoe - unless it’s not just John and there’s more than one of them up there, looking down at him.

He tries to reach out for the boot and his bound hands go nowhere, and that voice up above drifts down: “Fuck, they tied him up, Nick...”

And that clarifies the boot situation. With his well and truly last ounce of energy he shifts over onto his back, just as Nick and John crouch down on either side of him, their eyes huge and scared as they take him in. One of John’s hands hovers out as if to touch him, but it wavers in mid air and he retracts it uncertainly. He presses the back of it to his mouth instead when his eyes hit somewhere around Roger’s hips, his adam’s apple bobbing visibly as he swallows.

One of Nick’s hands is on Roger’s face, encouraging him to turn his head, to look up into horribly concerned green eyes, and the sudden warmth of his fingers sends a full-body shudder through Roger’s core.

“God,” Nick says, low and scared, gaze roving over his face helplessly, “oh god, look at you...”

John scrabbles at the floor suddenly and a sound of horror escapes him as he grabs the strip of condoms, holding them up and meeting Nick’s sorrowful eyes and looking like he might puke.

“Did they...” he starts, then falters, then tries again, his voice small and wavering: “They didn’t...did they?”

The question, such as it is, is one, desperate plea, and Roger is so, chokingly relieved to be able to shake his head jerkily, the bones in his neck feeling like they’re grating together from the cold that’s enveloped him.

“Fuck,” Nick utters softly, heartfelt. “ _Fuck_ , Rog.”

They grab him, then, both of them dropping to their knees and descending on him awkwardly. They can’t hug him since he’s flat on his back, but their hands close around his arms, his waist, his hips. He wants to curl his arms around their necks and hold on and never fucking let go, but his hands are still bound and shivers are wracking him so hard he can barely move anyway. He thinks Nick might be crying, if the wet splash on the back of his hand is anything to go by. Could just be blood dripping off his wrist. Either way, it’s not good. He swallows hard, panic still fluttering in his chest.

They might come back, he realises suddenly, lifting his head to try and see down the corridor. They might come back, and if they do then they’ll get Nick and John too and no, he can’t let that happen. He starts struggling, trying to shrug them off, despite the way it makes his chest tight with pain.

“Go,” he urges, “we need to _go_...they might...”

“They’ve gone,” John tells him, voice low and soothing but cracking with distress. “They’ve long gone.”

“They wanted you,” Roger stresses, “they’ve got a knife...”

“Okay, it’s okay, we’ll go,” Nick soothes. “We need to find something to cut your hands free. Can you stand up?”

Roger’s body screams ‘ _No, there is no bloody way_ ’, but he sets his jaw and says “Yeah, just...haul me up.”

One of John’s hands slides under his back and lifts him up into a sitting position, and Roger buries his face against Nick’s throat and tries desperately not to groan as pain bursts inside him. Nick must feel him panting, can probably even hear him grinding his teeth, but he doesn’t rat him out. He and John loop an arm under each of his and, with their help and balanced on one ankle, he eventually makes it back to the vertical, swaying dangerously as the world tilts around him.

And it _was_ Nick, he realises, seeing the droplet on the back of his hand, tinted black. He looks into those wonderfully familiar green eyes, full of tears, eyeliner streaking down one cheek, and wishes he could reach out and wipe it away.

“We need to clean you up,” John says grimly, slinking out of his jacket and pulling it around Roger’s shoulders. The fear in his eyes hasn’t gone anywhere but he looks determined now, trying to be push it down deep. “Get you out of here.”

“Not back to the dressing room,” he mutters, pain lancing through his ankle every time he puts down his left foot. “All those people...”

“It’s okay,” John reassures, “we passed one of the changing rooms they use for the rugby. There’ll be showers and everything in there.”

‘ _Must have hurtled past it during the not-so-great escape_ ’, Roger assumes, putting his head down and concentrating on getting there. It’s not easy when John’s shoulder is too high to bear down on, and Nick’s just so small, Roger can’t bring himself to lean too much weight on him.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

The changing rooms have a door, an actual lockable door, and it’s cool and silent in there, and when John and Nick set him down on one of the benches along the wall, Roger begins to feel like he can breathe properly again, though he’s shaking hard enough to make every muscle in his body ache. While Nick scouts around, trying to find something sharp they can cut the tie with, John sits by Roger’s side, eyes boring into him as Roger tries as hard as possible to avoid meeting his gaze. He’s scared of what he’ll see there - pity, or uncertainty, or something that’ll make him burst into tears. So he just stares at his feet, shoulders hunched, only looking up when Nick reappears from the adjoining recovery room with a pair of scissors.

He crouches down in front of Roger, looking at the tie nervously. It’s so tight he has to slide one of the arms carefully under and along the length of Roger’s wrist, and Roger holds his breath at the press of cold metal because it reminds him of the knife. Nick has to use both hands to press down hard enough to cut through the tough plastic. When it finally snaps and falls to the floor, Roger drags in an audibly shaky breath, all of them looking at the slices of red around his wrists, some of the skin ragged and torn by the sharp edges.

He manages a small, crooked smile as he croaks: “Thanks”, the feeling of having his hands free relaxing another knot in his chest.

Nick returns it faintly, sliding one of his hands into one of Roger’s and squeezing gently, curling their fingers together. “John,” he says, handing over the scissors. “There’s a cupboard over there marked ‘towels’ - you think you can break in?”

John’s long fingers loop through the handle of the scissors and he’s off, that same determination in every move he makes. As he goes, Roger’s eye is caught by movement across the room and he startles, his entire body tensing until he realises: It’s just a mirror. Nick, who feels the grip on his hand tighten, looks across the room and then back at him, waiting to make sure he’s worked it out before asking:

“D’you want to look?”

Roger meets his eyes, nodding slightly. Most people, he thinks, would try to put him off seeing the mess he’s in, but Nick understands. Nick knows that he can feel blood, wet and sticky on his face.

As Nick helps him back up, John manages to force open the lock on the cupboard, one of the doors flinging open in protest. It’s stacked with clean, pure white towels, folded into neat squares, and John reaches in and grabs an armful.

And Roger, as they reach the mirror, stands and stares and shivers. He looks like death. The skin over his left cheekbone has split open, and so has his bottom lip, and blood has run all down the side of his face and down over his throat, staining the front of his white shirt rusty red. He can see where rough hands have grabbed handfuls of his hair and yanked, and the torn knees of his jeans are now even more torn, and wet, and bloody. His palms are grazed and he’s limping hard. On top of it all his skin has drained of colour, leaving him pale and washed out. His breaths start coming harder and the only thing that stops him from crumbling back down to the floor is the arm around his waist.

“What do you want to do?” Nick asks softly. “Hospital?”

Roger shakes his head, the very thought of having more strange hands touching him turning his stomach.

“A shower, then,” Nick suggests, his voice set at a low, gentle pitch. “Once we’ve cleaned the blood up we’ll be able to see how bad it is.”

They sit him back down in order to get his boots off, John working on them while Nick raids the recovery room again for some alcohol swabs and dressings.

“Are you okay with this?” John asks tentatively, fingers hovering near the top of Roger’s shirt. “I don’t want to...”

Roger just shakes his head, reaching up to take one of John’s hands and guiding it to touch his chest. John gives him a small, crumbling, sad smile at the show of trust and nods, carefully sliding each button out of its loop, taking in each reveal of skin with hawk eyes. The left side of his ribs is the worst, the bruises red and shadowy, and John touches them gently.

Nick, back again and watching them intently, asks: “Are they broken?”

Roger swallows, his throat feeling closed up and dry. “Some are cracked, I think. Hurts to breathe.”

Nick looks away sharply, anger flashing in his eyes, as John runs his fingers slowly along each ridge of bone as though feeling for the damage.

The contrast between this and what was happening to him just ten minutes earlier is overwhelming, and Roger hates the fact that he still feels on edge, still feels terrified, even with them. Nick, who’s wetting a towel under the hot water in the nearest sink, watching them all the while. John, who’s carefully helping him slide his shirt off over one of his shoulders.

They are so gentle with him.

The lump appears in his throat without warning, thick and choking, and the next thing he knows his head is down and his fingers are buried in his hair at the back of his head and he’s crying, scared, bewildered. And it hurts so much, every heaving, desperate sob tearing at his ribs, taking his breath away, leaving him a horrible, shaking, wreck, but he can’t stop it - it’s taken him over, eating away at his insides.

He hates to think how John and Nick must be looking at him, like he’s absolutely insane or just plain pathetic or something made of glass. They don’t make a habit of crying in front of each other, and after all they’ve already done for him already he’s just gone and made things even more awkward for them.

But then John is enclosing him, suddenly, long arms pulling him up from his foetal position and into a side-on hug instead, and he drops his head into the crook of John’s neck as John holds him close and strokes his back slowly, fingers gripping him with desperate strength. He burrows as far into John’s embrace as he can and lets it all go, crying so hard he can’t even see, can barely breathe. John’s holding the back of his head and leaning down to kiss his temple and clutching at him like he might be able to hold him together; stop his chest from cracking open right down the middle.

“It’s okay,” he’s intoning softly, “you’re okay, now, you’re gonna be okay. ‘m so sorry, Rog, ‘m so sorry, we’ve got you now...”

Nick, standing at the sink, soaking the towels in hot water, tries to ignore the tears stinging his eyes. The heart-wrenching sobs are unbearable, and so un-Roger-like it’s terrifying, but he’s not surprised the dam’s burst at last. Nick can only imagine how scared he must have been, surrounded, held at knife point, hunted down through the corridors, alone, sexually assaulted...

It’s the last one that makes him feel sick to his stomach, just the idea of what they were intending to do; the images that flash through his head, of what they might have found if they’d been ten minutes later, or if they’d never left the party at all. He swallows thickly and tries to concentrate on what he’s doing, tears blurring his vision.

Horribly aware that he’s soaking the collar of John’s shirt, Roger tries to pull back but is stopped by the circle of John’s arms, just bringing him closer.

“Don’t worry about it,” John tells him kindly, bringing one of the empty sleeves of Roger’s shirt up and passing it to him. “Here, use this.”

Roger laughs through his tears, but it’s fair enough - he doubts he’d ever want to wear the thing again, anyway, so he wipes at his eyes and his nose and sighs, scrunching the wet material in his hand and closing his eyes. His head feels like it’s full of cotton wool and it’s still pounding sharply behind his temple, and he wonders how much more of a sight he must look now.

Which is why it comes as a surprise when John sighs and touches his chin gently and says: “Look at you, you even manage to look good when you’ve been crying. How d’you do that?”

Roger glances up at him, shaking his head, brown eyes big and wet. “You’re crazy, John.”

“Not when it comes to this.”

Huffing a soft, bitter laugh, Roger says quietly: “They said I was the least pretty one. They were disappointed to get me and not one of you.”

“Oh, Rog,” John laments, so clearly hurting for him, hand stroking his jaw. “You’re so fucking pretty it’s unbelievable. You have to know that.”

“’m just glad it wasn’t any of you,” Roger mumbles. “They might’ve...moved faster.”

Nick sits down on his other side and John reluctantly loosens his arms, letting Roger lean back against the wall between them. Nick hands one of the damp, hot towels to him and together they start cleaning away the worst of the blood, Nick taking care of his face and John wiping at his grazed, gritty hands gently. Roger closes his eyes. There’s a feeling of safety that comes with having both of them near him that he just wants to go on forever.

“You _are_ pretty,” Nick says while they work, his voice filling the sudden silence warmly. “You know me and John fancy the pants off you.”

“I seem to remember showing him that just a few nights ago, don’t you?” John adds, pressing his towel lightly over the bruised side of Roger’s ribs, the warmth of it easing some of the ache.

“Maybe we just need to say it more, next time,” Nick muses softly, sliding a cool hand onto Roger’s forehead, soothing.

John meets his eyes, the concern there clearly asking: Are you okay?. Nick nods at him, managing a small smile - he knows his eyeliner’s smudged and it’s obvious he’s been crying, but John doesn’t look too together either, his own eyes bright with emotion.

Roger’s head turns against the wall, his eyes opening, and Nick finds himself pinned by the dark, glassy gaze. A trembling hand reaches out to touch the side of his face, brushing a thumb across his tear-streaked skin.

“It didn’t happen,” Roger says, voice raw. “Nearly, but it didn’t. I can deal with that.”

He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as well, but Nick feels his heart twist that he’s even said it at all, and for *his* benefit. He lifts his own hand to cover the one cupping his face, and brings it down to squeeze between both of his.

“You don’t have to get over it just like that,” he pleads quietly. “Don’t bottle it up.”

Roger doesn’t answer, but doesn’t break their gaze either. Nick knows that he’ll try to bury everything deep down inside - it’s what Roger does, it’s how he deals with things - but he also knows that he and John will try their hardest to get him to talk about it, to get him to cry and shout and break things, if he has to.

“Do you...” Roger begins, then clears his throat, still choked up. “D’you mind if I do this part on my own?”

He inclines his head towards the shower room, where the shadows fall long across the floor, and Nick’s initial instinct is to shout “Yes!”, his fingers tightening around Roger’s hand. But he stops himself, glances at John briefly, then nods his agreement reluctantly.

“Can you walk on your own?”

Roger glances down at his feet. “I think so. I think I just twisted it.”

“Here,” John says, standing up and holding out an arm to him. “I’ll help you over there and then we’ll leave you to it, okay?”

“We’ll be right out here,” Nick adds, as a brief flash of uncertainty crosses Roger’s face.

“Okay,” Roger agrees quietly, getting to his feet and winding an arm around John’s waist. John grabs one of the fresh towels from the cupboard as they pass it - it’s slow going, but Roger does seem to be able to put more weight down at least, though his slight limp just emphasises how fragile he is.

Nick leans back against the wall, tipping his head back and staring up at the ceiling above. He feels momentarily numb, bewildered by the fact that a mere hour ago he would never have even dreamt of this happening; had no idea that anyone could harbour such ill-feeling towards them as to try to hurt them. He can’t stop putting himself in Roger’s place, trying to imagine how scared he would’ve been in his shoes. He saw the size of those men, all serious bruisers. They would’ve made mincemeat out of him. Even John, tall as he is, would’ve looked like a waif next to them.

A shadow falls over him and he blinks, lowering his head to find John standing over him, looking down at him with dark, worried eyes.

“How did you know?” he asks. “When you dragged me out of the dressing room. How did you know?”

Nick shakes his head helplessly. “I didn’t. I just had a bad feeling. I just thought he was ill or upset about something.”

“Thank god you did,” John says quietly, so heartfelt. “Can you imagine - “

“I can’t stop,” Nick interrupts honestly. “I can’t stop thinking about it, John. They were going to...”

“To rape him,” John finishes, voice almost a whisper, but at least he’s brave enough to say it. His eyes drop to the floor, then across to that shadowy doorway, and he adds in utter disbelief: “To _gang_ rape him.”

Nick closes his eyes tightly for a moment. Hearing it out loud doesn’t help in the slightest, doesn’t take away any of the horror. “We would’ve lost him, John. Can you imagine if he couldn’t trust us, couldn’t let us touch him, couldn’t handle associating us with what happened? We’re only just starting this...” he waves a hand, “this thing we’ve started, and those *bastards* could’ve broken it. Could’ve broken *him*.”

John doesn’t answer - _can’t_ answer - so they simply stay still and listen to the sound of the water running.

Nick sits forwards. Drums one set of fingers on the bench.

Looks back up at John.

“Can we at least go and stand by the door?” he asks, antsy. John looks relieved, though, and they move remarkably quickly towards the shower room, taking up sentry-like posts on either side of the door. After all, Roger asked if he could do it on his own, not that he had to be *alone*.

He has his back to them, but even with the water pattering down around him he’s hyper-aware, glancing over his shoulder and making sure it’s just the two of them before turning back to work on getting the grit out of his knees. He hasn’t turned the lights on in there so is illuminated only by what comes in from the main room, which leaves him pale in the washed-out dimness around him. He looks almost like a black and white photograph, shadows pooling in the hollow of the small of his back and underneath his shoulder blades. He lowers his head and lets the shower pour down on him, one of his hands pressing against the tiles in front of him, fingers digging into the grout as the hot water stings in his cuts. Were it not for the situation the scene would’ve been erotic, his body a perfect silhouette of muscle and bone, but as it is he’s just black and white, small and vulnerable, damaged but whole. He uses his other hand to slide through his hair, letting the water run through and wash away the hair spray and sweat and the memory of those fingers.

Nick watches - can’t help but watch - mesmerised, and he knows John’s the same. It’s heart-breaking and beautiful at the same time; awful but stunning.

“What’re we going to do?” John asks, keeping his voice low. “How do we get out of here?”

“We should be able to find a fire exit or something and sneak out,” Nick answers, never tearing his eyes away from Roger. “The hotel’s so close we should be able to get there in about five minutes.”

“There might still be fans out there.”

“Hopefully they’ll all be ‘round the front,” Nick says. “But maybe one of us should go back to the dressing room and get our coats and scarves and stuff, that way we can put our hoods up and cover our faces a bit. Roger needs some different clothes, anyway.”

“I’ll go,” John offers, standing up straight and sliding a hand onto his shoulder in support. “What about Andy and Simon? Everyone’ll be wondering where the hell we’ve got to.”

Nick shakes his head. “Andy left with someone before we did, so Simon’ll be holding the fort on his own. Just tell him...”

“I’ll think of something,” John says, patting his shoulder before taking off. “Remember to lock the door behind me, yeah?”

“Yeah, knock three times when you come back,” Nick says, following him and grabbing his elbow as he moves out into the corridor. “Be careful,” he adds at John’s questioning look. John nods, Nick lets him go, and he’s gone.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

It’s further back to the dressing room than John remembers, and he walks as fast as he can, on edge and suspicious of every corner and alcove and door he passes.

He’s not too surprised to find the place deserted when he finally gets there, just a few of the stage hands packing stuff up. Simon’s probably led them all out to the nearest club like the pied piper, fed up of getting backed into a corner. It means John’s able to slip in and back out without even having to speak to anyone, though, which is perfect. With an armful of coats and scarves and the jeans and jumper Roger was wearing before the show, he darts back into the corridor and silently reminds himself to thank Simon later.

 

* * * * * * * * * 

 

When Nick opens the door to let him back in it’s with a small smile of relief; relief which John shares as soon as he’s back in out of those corridors. Roger’s sitting down on the bench in just his boxers, his damp, black hair falling across his forehead. Just looking at him makes John’s heart hurt all over again.

“Here,” he says gently, dropping his armful onto the bench. “I’ve got your clothes.”

“Thanks,” Roger says, gratitude obvious in his voice, which is a little stronger than it was. He sits and lets John help him into his jumper, lifting each arm when John taps his elbow. The wool is soft and black and well-worn, stretching slightly across his shoulders, a little rumpled but warm and comforting.

As he gets up to tug on his jeans, John stays close by and Roger wraps a hand around one of his arms to keep balance.

“You look more like yourself now,” John tells him, lifting his free hand and pushing his fingers through Roger’s hair. “You think you can make it back to the hotel?”

“Yeah,” Roger says quietly, sitting back down and reaching for his boots. He begins to lean forwards before hesitating, a faint wince crossing his face. “Could you...?”

Already crouching down with a smile, John reaches out to push him back gently. “‘Course I will, idiot. Just sit there.”

Roger nods gratefully and Nick, already buttoned up in his coat, sits next to him and starts wrapping a scarf carefully around his neck.

“Cold out there,” he explains, “and we have to try and get out of here incognito. Keep our heads down and stay in the shadows.”

“I can do that,” Roger says, and Nick smiles as he hands John the other boot.

“Yeah,” he says, softly. “We know.”

The walk to the hotel is slow but uneventful, the back streets surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night. They stay close by each other’s sides, Nick and John ready to offer Roger an arm if he needs it. It’s obvious that his ankle’s still hurting, but it’s also obvious that his breakdown in the changing room has made him slam up the barriers and the shutters, not wanting to appear too helpless in front of them. And, however crazy that may be, they have to respect it. Because this is Roger, and that’s how he works, and aside from that, neither of them have any desire to make him hurt emotionally any more than he already is.

“Did you see Simon, by the way?” Nick asks, walking around a pile of wet autumn leaves. “Did you tell him?”

John shakes his head, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, collar pulled up against the wind. “They’d all cleared off somewhere. I’ll find him later, if he comes back alone.”

Nick raises an amused eyebrow. “Seems unlikely, doesn’t it?”

John smiles wolfishly in acknowledgement. “Stranger things have happened.”

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

They decide to camp out in the room Roger and Nick are sharing on the seventh floor, knowing that it’s right at the end of the corridor and a little more private than the one John’s got, right next to the block of lifts. Speaking of which:

“Can we take the lift?” John asks, innocently. “I’m exhausted.”

Roger shoots him a look that says he clearly doesn’t buy it, but there’s a hint of fond gratitude there that’s worth every word. They don’t have to share the lift with anyone else, so Nick leans back against one side, John looks at the mirrored back wall and fiddles with his hair, and Roger faces Nick, holding his eyes and studiously ignoring his own reflection.

When they lurch to a stop and the doors slide jerkily open with a chirpy ‘ping’, they bundle out into the dimly lit corridor. Nick leads the way to the end, fumbling with the key, as John glances habitually behind them to make sure no one’s watching as they all slip into the same room. It’s a well practised manoeuvre and they’re locked inside in the blink of an eye, locking out the unpredictable, dangerous world outside. Roger limps over to the window and opens it, resting his hands on the windowsill and leaning out to take a deep breath of cool air. The room’s overly-warm and stuffy, typical hotel fare, and his sense of simmering claustrophobia is understandable.

John moves to stand by his side, squashing their shoulders together as he leans out too, resting a hand lightly on Roger’s back and breathing in the refreshingly cold night air. Nick strips off his coat and scarf and drapes them over the back of a chair, stretching his shoulders back with a faint click of bones and sitting down on the end of the bed.

“Have either of you got anything to drink?” Roger asks, so quietly that Nick almost thinks he’s imagined it for a second. John glances over his shoulder, sharing a look of surprise.

“A _drink_ drink?” he checks.

Roger nods, stepping back from the window and turning around to lean against the wall. “A drink drink,” he clarifies.

“I’ve got a bottle of tequila in my bag, I could go and get,” John offers uncertainly. “If you’re sure.”

Lifting a hand to touch the healing split in his lip lightly, Roger sighs. “Look, I know you want to talk about it, and you know I’m not very good at talking about it, so let’s make this easier on all of us, okay? I don’t want to get wasted, I just don’t want to feel like you’re pulling my teeth out one by one.”

The questioning look on John’s face fades away into a quick grin and he backs away from the window and heads for the door. “I’ll be back in a minute, then.” He glances at Nick and adds: “I’ll knock three times.”

Nick nods and watches him go, getting up to lock the door after him before turning around to meet Roger’s eyes. They’re on opposite sides of the room, and though it’s not particularly big it feels like there’s a giant void between them.

“You don’t have to talk to us at all, you know,” Nick tells him. “We’re not going to force you.”

“Yeah you will,” Roger says, and he smiles faintly. “Maybe not tonight, but you would eventually. Anyway,” he looks down at his feet, “I don’t think I want to deal with this on my own.”

“Will you let John stay?” Nick asks softly. “I mean, we could push the beds together. Just to sleep,” he adds quickly. “He won’t want to leave.”

Roger nods and starts unwinding the scarf from around his neck, the warmth of the room pressing in on them. He crosses the room to drop it and his coat on top of Nick’s, closing that gap between them, leaving them a mere few feet from each other. His knees seem to give up at that point and he sits down on the edge of the bed, pushing the sleeves of his jumper up towards his elbows. He looks worn and tired, and Nick feels the irresistible urge to just hold him. The wind outside has dried his hair wavy, curling at his nape, and he just looks so young and innocent that Nick can’t reconcile him with the violence of what nearly happened to him earlier. He’s contemplating moving closer when the three knocks sound at his back, and he turns instead to let John back in.

“Something to numb the pain, sir?” John asks as he walks back in, holding the bottle out to Roger with a waiter-like flourish.

“Thanks, John,” Roger says with a faint smile, twisting the top off and knocking back a mouthful before Nick’s even got the door locked. He doesn’t even wince as he swallows it, though he prods at his split lip afterwards with his tongue as it stings and hands John the bottle.

John motions towards the floor and says: “Come and sit down here. We can pass it around, then.”

So they sit in a circle, or a triangle, Roger leaning back against the end of the bed, and take turns to drink straight from the bottle.

“I hate this stuff,” Nick says, then proceeds to swallow down two mouthfuls in quick succession. “Especially on its own.”

“There was a certain added enjoyment last time we did it,” John remarks slyly, catching Roger’s attention.

“What happened?”

Nick rolls his eyes, faintly embarrassed. “John turned up with a bottle, a lime and some little packets of salt that he nicked from a cafe.”

“And the part where you lick the salt off the back of your hand turned into me licking it off Nick’s hand, and then Nick licking lime juice off my fingers, and then...you get the idea,” John says with a smirk.

“Yeah, I get the idea,” Roger says, looking between them with that small smile. “How long’ve you two been doing this...thing, anyway?”

Nick looks at John in appraisal. “A few months, I suppose. It’s on and off, though, it’s not like we’re with each other every night or anything.”

“We’d drive each other insane,” John adds in agreement.

“So why did you decide to add me to the equation, then?” Roger asks, confusion in his voice

“I thought I kept catching you looking at Nick’s eyes a bit longer than necessary a few times and thought it was a risk worth taking,” John says with a shrug. “Not much to go on and I was terrified you’d take it badly and kick my arse or something, but...”

“We wanted you,” Nick finishes. “And it was totally, definitely worth the risk.”

“But after what happened, tonight, “John says cautiously, “you don’t see us as a threat now, do you? I mean...I know we’re two of the least threatening men alive, but you know what I mean.”

Roger smiles wryly at that, but it fades slowly as he considers the question. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Not just sitting here like this anyway. But when I think about what we did the other night...”

John winces slightly as he says: “You mean when I pushed you up against the wall and snogged you so hard we almost suffocated?”

“And then we had frantic, carpet burn-y sex on the floor?” Nick adds quietly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Roger says, lifting his gaze from the floor and looking between them with dark, dark eyes, “I loved it. But if you tried to do that to me now...it was kind of overwhelming.” He shakes his head and mutters: “That sounds pathetic.”

“No it doesn’t,” Nick says firmly. “It sounds sensible.”

Roger sighs as he looks between them, then back down at the floor. He lifts the bottle back to his lips and tips his head back, adam’s apple sliding in his throat as he swallows down more of the tequila. When he passes the bottle over to Nick, he looks uncomfortable, but certain as he says: “You’d never hurt me.”

John’s wary eyes go liquid soft with concern as his brows crease together and he urges painfully: “Never.”

“But we could trigger something in you,” Nick says ruefully. “If we got too into it and held your wrists too tight, or asked you to get on your knees, or bit down on your lip...”

“I know. But it’s not the same,” Roger says, though there’s doubt in his voice.

“We don’t want to pressure you into saying you’ll stick with us,” John muses pensively, “but we don’t want to lose you. Not because some wankers tried to hurt you for something you didn’t even do.”

Roger shakes his head slowly, rubbing a hand over his ribs absently. “It was unlucky that they were men - they were bigger than me, they would’ve really...really messed me up. But it could just as easily have been a mad gang of groupies with knives wanting to...”

He tails off, doesn’t want to say it out loud, and John leans across and puts a hand on his wrist, stroking a thumb across the bones there gently.

“Maybe if you took the lead?” he suggests. “I mean, as an experiment. Me and Nick could just sit still and let you work out what you’re comfortable with.”

Roger shrugs a shoulder in helpless agreement, rubbing a thumb over one of his knees where the grazes are stinging, then realises that John’s still looking at him. “Oh...D’you mean now?”

John tilts his head slightly, regarding him in appraisal. “Yeah. If you want to.”

Roger watches him for a long moment, eyes wandering across his face as though looking for anything that might remind him of his attackers. John, though, is so far from those guys it’s impossible to think of them in the same league. John’s expression holds nothing but care and friendship, his posture completely relaxed and open, and the thought of being closer to him brings only that sense of safety that Roger felt when he was sandwiched between them in the changing room.

Glancing at Nick and getting a small smile of encouragement, he shifts closer to John, trying not to drag his grazed up knees on the floor. Up close, John’s worry blazes clear in his eyes, with a hint of familiar hungry hope mixed in that he can’t help. He leans forwards slightly and Roger catches the scent of shower gel and hair spray and all of the warm, comforting things that make up John, and he lets the familiarity of it calm his nerves. Reaching out, he strokes the backs of his fingers down one side of John’s strong jaw and runs a thumb underneath his soft, pretty mouth. John’s dark eyes flicker closed and he pleads softly: “Kiss me,” keeping his hands firmly by his sides, and when those huge, dark, desperate eyes flash back open, Roger is lost.

He leans in closer, close enough to bump noses, close enough to brush the lightest, barest kiss to John’s lips before pulling back an inch again, the pair of them just breathing together, waiting, anticipating. John’s eyes flutter closed again, his hands clenching by his sides, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows, waiting patiently. Roger kisses him again, lingering this time, his own eyes sliding shut as John’s mouth moves minutely against his own, tongue licking gently at the split in his lip. Before that tongue can disappear Roger touches it with the tip of his own, and John makes a quiet sound of relief and encourages him to take it further, to take his mouth and lick deep across his palate, and all the while he’s careful not to put any pressure on that split lip, just letting Roger chase the taste of tequila across his tongue and teeth.

Nick stays quiet, letting John work his magic, silently screwing the top back on the tequila and sliding it around the corner of the bed. They’re nicely buzzing with it now, but he knows that if it’s there, they’ll drink it, and the thought that they might end up doing something they regret is too big a risk to take. So he hides it, out of sight, out of mind, knowing that the distraction of these kisses will be a greater tool for working out the issues anyway.

It’s strange, watching the gentle, sensual back and forth between them - beautiful, but so different to his last memory of them kissing, which had been in another hotel, in another country, and he’d been fucking Roger into the floor with short, hard thrusts deep enough to make him gasp, and John had knelt next to them, just stroking himself off and leaning down to kiss Roger with open-mouthed hunger, the pair of them hot enough to make Nick’s hands clutch hard, too-hard, at Roger’s hips.

That frantic, heavy feeling is gone now, and he wonders whether it’ll ever reach that pitch again. Not that it matters, if it doesn’t, but butterflies spread their wings in his stomach when he remembers the way Roger had gazed up at him with reverence and desire, all golden skin and hard muscle in the dim light.

“Fuck,” he says quietly, but it’s enough to make John pull out of the kiss, glancing at him in concern.

“What is it?” he asks. “Was that too much?”

“No, no,” Nick waves a hand to dispel his worry, “It’s just watching you two, that’s all. I’m just...I’m relieved to see it again.”

Roger keeps his eyes closed, apparently memorising the sensation of the pressure of John’s lips against his, but he lifts a hand to wrap around his ribs and murmurs absently: “Can we move this up to the bed? The tequila’s not really numbing the pain.”

The mention of bed sends John’s gaze in Nick’s direction, uncertain, but Nick smiles at him. “It’s okay. He wants you to stay. C’mon, help me push the beds together.”

As John gets up to help him, Roger bats a tired hand against one of his knees in gentle admonishment, and John smiles, reaching down to squeeze his shoulder affectionately.

Leaning to one side carefully to grab his bag, abandoned nearby, Roger roots around and pulls out a bottle of aspirin, tipping two out onto his palm and swallowing them dry. He knows from experience that taking them on an empty-aside-from-alcohol-stomach on a regular basis does him no good at all, but for a one-off they should at least dull some of the sharper pains.

The fact that the bottle’s nearly empty doesn’t pass Nick by.

“I didn’t think you could get hooked on aspirin,” he remarks, as he helps John re-arrange the sheets on their newly double bed.

Roger rolls his eyes and slowly, cautiously, gets to his feet. “Just headaches, mum.”

“Drummer problems,” John tells Nick knowingly, dodging as Roger reaches out to bat him in the stomach. He smoothly catches that hand and turns the swipe into a hug instead, sliding his arms around Roger’s middle and holding him close. “You feel so good in this,” he says, curling his hands around either side of Roger’s ribcage, where the wool of his jumper is thin and soft and warm.

“It’s old.”

“But it’s yours.”

“One of the wardrobe people tried to throw it away the other day. Said I’d bring the standard down.”

John laughs, pressing his cheek to the top of Roger’s head. “Philistines. It gives you a certain ragamuffin charm.”

“Thanks, John,” Roger says sardonically, poking him in the side. “We can’t all pull off the things you do, you know.”

“It’s a gift,” John sighs, then pokes him back. “I’m trying to compliment you, idiot. Just take it, will you?”

“Rog doesn’t like compliments,” Nick says with a smile, “haven’t you worked that out yet?”

“How can you not like being told you’re sexy as hell?” John asks, genuinely bemused, delving the fingers of one hand into the dark hair at the back of Roger’s head. “That you’re gorgeous and pretty and funny and talented?”

Roger’s forehead is pressed against John’s shoulder, but it’s like they can hear him looking skywards as he mutters: “Shut up, John.”

John shakes his head, ruffling his hair with gentle affection. “You strange creature, you.” 

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

Roger is not surprised when he ends up in the middle of the bed, the pair of them still protecting him. He knows he’s going to be horribly black and blue tomorrow, and his body will seize up, and thank god they don’t have another show for a few days because his ankle is not up to the task. He’s dreading the next time he sneezes, knowing what the pain in his ribs will be like, and he’s dreading having to leave this bed, this room, this hotel, because for the moment he feels safe and suddenly that’s not something to take for granted.

They take turns to kiss each other, lazy and slow, Roger exploring their mouths as though for the first time, stroking his hands lightly across their bodies, hard and bony and soft skinned. The two of them lie back and let him take the lead, their hands only ever touching and worshipping, never grabbing or holding on. They don’t make him nervous; they don’t remind him of it. All they remind him of is being saved, and being safe.

And while he’s pretty certain he’s going to be plagued by nightmares for a little while, he’s surprised by how quickly his eyes start feeling heavy, the weight of John’s arm across his waist and the soft gusts of Nick’s breath across his shoulder pulling him down, down, down.

 

* * * * * * * * 

 

The nightmares do come, and he’s running so fast through those grey corridors, only there are no doors or windows now, just grey, and when they catch him the hand that makes its way inside his jeans doesn’t just grope him, it starts ripping at his clothes, and when he tries to struggle there’s the knife, pressing into his side, opening up his skin, and blood starts pooling on the grey, grey floor...

His eyes flash open as he gasps for breath, chest heaving with the need for air, sweat slick against his back and the sheets. There’s a hand on his ribcage that he knows instantly is Nick’s - it’s less callused than John’s, and slight, and elegant, and that gentle voice is telling him over and over that he’s okay, that it was just a dream, that he’s safe.

He slumps, breathing hard, blinking slowly in the dim room and focusing on the wide green eyes gazing down at him.

“Nick,” he whispers, and his voice is a horrible, raw, trembling thing.

Nick’s looking down at him with an intense mixture of worry and fury and protectiveness, eyes blazing with it. “It’s okay,” he repeats quietly, lifting his hand from Roger’s chest to stroke across his sweat-damp forehead. “You were just dreaming.”

Roger turns his head against the pillow, brow creasing in confusion because John’s still there, on his other side, but there’s a long arm slung over John’s waist. “...Simon?” he asks, uncertain.

“He turned up about an hour ago,” Nick tells him, each word like a simple breath. “John let him in and we told him. I wish you’d seen how furious he was, like he was going to storm out and hunt them down or something.”

Roger stares at that arm, the hand curled over John’s hipbone, the long length of their bodies pressed tightly together. There’s no lingering scent of perfume or alcohol or smoky clubs, it’s just Simon, tall and lean and intense even in his sleep, holding on to John, who's frowning slightly in his sleep, like an anchor.

“He’s asleep, now,” Nick says softly. “But he didn’t want to leave you either.”

Swallowing the emotion that bubbles up in his chest and throat, Roger turns back to meet Nick’s gentle gaze, glancing across to the alarm clock to see that it’s still relatively early. Nick’s fingers trail down to touch his banged up cheek and he says, low and distressed: “I’m sorry we weren’t there.”

Roger shakes his head under the warm, light pressure of his hand. “Don’t. No one saw it coming. We can’t follow each other everywhere.”

“If we hadn’t found you...”

“Then I would’ve been screwed,” Roger finishes softly, mentally stamping down on the sense of panic that flares even at the thought of it. “Literally.”

Normally Nick appreciates that kind of bluntness, but even he winces at the words, the sorrow taking over everything else in his eyes.

“Tomorrow, we’re not going anywhere, okay?” he says, and it’s like the most gentle order in the world. “We’re staying in bed and we’re going to make sure every inch of you is alright. I can’t see a thing right now but I know you’re covered in bruises.”

“Staying in bed sounds good,” Roger admits quietly, closing his eyes when Nick leans in and presses a feather-soft kiss to his lips. “Sorry if I keep waking you up, in the meantime.”

“Do what you have to do,” Nick tells him, slipping an arm around him and sliding closer.

Roger rests his head against Nick’s shoulder and concentrates on letting his breathing even out, listening to the solid, slow thump under his ear.

He’ll be so glad when this day is over.

And even more glad when he wakes up with all three of them wrapped around him in the morning.


End file.
